


Life For Rent

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Holmes is well disguised, Watson is well up for it and both are seen to be engaged in unseemly and lewd public behaviours.</p><p>Trope?  No, surely not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life For Rent

“Look at me, boy.”

I should have heard him coming, even on the crowded streets of Whitechapel. His crooked step and the hollow tap of his cane are as familiar to me as my own footsteps, but even I would never think to look for them there.

I attempted to cover my surprise by taking a long drag on my cigarette, taking his measure from beneath my lowered lashes. Except for the tell-tale dark flush along his cheekbones (the legacy of some hours spent in a public house, or a single hour in the Turkish bath – and there are no baths of any kind to be had on this particular street) he looked much as he did only that morning at the breakfast table.

I suppose it must be also said that he had not committed any felonies at breakfast table, and if I had been asked to give a prediction as to his intention to perpetrate criminal acts that evening I would certainly have answered in the negative.

Impatiently, he grasped my chin and directed my gaze to meet his own. His sharp indrawn breath was the only indicator of his surprise and for one dreadful moment I was certain that he had recognized me but his shock passed over and he only muttered

“Extraordinary.”

Releasing me, he fumbled in his pocket and came up with a handful of coins; much more than I was worth but it would hardly have been in character to tell him. I made a show of counting it out slowly, then dropped the whole lot into my coat pocket.

“Come on then, guv – I ain’t got all night, even for a gentleman such as yourself.” My voice was rough and the accent borrowed, but the word gentleman was delivered over my shoulder with lowered lashes, playing the role of eager rent boy to the hilt. There was a hope that coquetry would distract him from the obvious tell-tale signs that I was not the child I appeared to be.

I heard his distinctive gait follow me down the alley and the familiar light slip and slide of his cane on the damp cobbles created an odd dissonance of my senses – it was for a moment difficult for me to separate that alley from so many others he had followed me into.

With a firm hand on his coat, I drew him into the shadows. He was close enough for me to smell his tobacco, the camphor on his overcoat and under them both the scent of home; the peculiar combination of chemicals and tea and antiseptic that signifies the sitting room at Baker Street. His body was rigid and he leant away from me a little, looking down at his feet. His profile was lit by the distant gleam of the street lamps and I saw him turn further away, blushing furiously as he began to speak.

“Alright then, lad” He cleared his throat and in the dim light I saw him draw himself up a little. He planted one broad palm against the wall by my head and inclined his head to my ear. His speech was rapid, no doubt rehearsed but the heat of his breath and the low husky tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine and I could feel my body begin to respond to him despite my best efforts.

“In a moment you will turn around. You will not speak to me, but I will be glad to hear any other sound from you.” Here he blushed, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“You will” he continued “obey my every instruction _without exception_. In exchange, you may trust that I will not bring you to any hurt or harm.”

I understood why my friend paid so handsomely: Unquestioning obedience costs a great deal more than the customary twopence, and trust is one of those few rare commodities that are not for sale in the back alleys of London.

I lowered my glance to his waistcoat. It was easier to slip into the role of whore if I didn’t see myself, as I was accustomed, in his eyes.

I nodded and dropped my hands to my sides, signifying my submission.

He placed a hand on my hip and spun me to face the wall. With his good thigh (I could feel the smooth perfection of undamaged muscle underneath the wool of his trousers) he parted my legs and pressed himself between them. The heat of his erect cock blazed between my buttocks and I could feel myself harden in response.

Taking up my hands, he placed them each side of my head, his heated fingers pressing mine into the cool stones. He nipped lightly at the skin around my hairline and breathed softly into my ear

“I know you’ve wanted this just as much as I.” A chill went down my spine – had he discovered me?

“You aren’t the only one who sees, who observes and deduces. I see you, Holmes, and I know who you are.” My mouth went dry and my heart leapt into my throat. Was it possible that he had followed me from our flat? That he had sought me out in the guise of a customer to sate some secret desire? I mumbled something that was intended to be his name, but it came out as a choked whisper – loud enough to attract his attention, but not loud enough to be understood.

“What’s that, boy?” He growled into my neck. His teeth scraped along the stubble on my jawbone and I groaned. The wanton sound must have pleased him, for I could feel the curve of his smile against my skin.

“I should think so, too.” With his lips occupied upon my earlobes, he slipped one hand to the front of my trousers. He traced the outline of my cock with one finger and I bit hard on my tongue to keep from crying his name.

“I can give you what you need” he panted, unbuttoning my flies and pushing my trousers rudely down to my knees. He gripped my length greedily, stroking roughly until I cried out and thrust between his fingers with a moan.

His other hand slid from where it had been tangled with mine. He brushed gently against my wrist, caressing my shoulder through the thin linen of my shirt and on down over my arse. I felt him fumble with his belt and flies, heard the rustle of his trousers and then he was pressing into me. It seemed that he planned to take me without preparation and I tensed involuntarily.

He stroked my flank, tracing the soft skin inside my thigh and then higher between my legs. A scrape of his buffed nails against my perineum drew a strangled growl from my throat and he whispered to me, breath scorching in the cool night

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. I only want what you will give me willingly.” I felt him again nudge my legs apart and the slide of his bare skin against mine startled me into complicity.

“Tonight you are as dear to me as my own love” his breath hitched as he manoeuvred himself to thrust between my sweat-slick thighs “you have nothing to fear from me.”

“I…” he groaned and began to push in earnest “…you can’t know…” The calloused pad of his thumb slipped through the wetness gathering on the tip of my cock and with a flick of his wrist, he spread it down my length. A breathy whine slipped past my lips and he groaned into the nape of my neck. The wet heat of his breath was maddening and I could feel what remained of my control slipping away.

“So long” he gasped, thrusting wildly “I’ve waited so long”. His doctor’s fingers with their sensible square nails dug into my hip, and I knew that I would bear the badge of his passion upon my skin for some days.

With a stuttered thrust, the hard blunt tip of his cock slid against the back of my scrotum and I felt the first tingling rush of my climax. In the dizzying haze that followed _le petit mort_ I was distantly aware of the wet heat of his seed between my thighs and his husky cry against my ear

_“Holmes”_

Too soon he had straightened up and was wiping himself off with a handkerchief. Tucking it into his pocket he straightened his hat, picked up his cane and strode off up the alley without a backward glance. I watched him go, listening intently for the shuffle of his footsteps long after they had disappeared into the bustling crowds.

***

I heard him return in the early hours of the morning.

He hesitated by my door, but I had left it open in deliberate invitation and so after only a moment’s thought he pushed it open.

I was at the washstand, shaving off the last of my disguise. He regarded me cautiously, a familiar assessing look that until tonight I had taken to be disapproval of my investigative methods. I now felt the full weight of his gaze, measuring me up against whatever boy had that night taken my place for him.

“Evening, Watson.” I greeted him without turning from the mirror – The glass would tell me everything I needed to know “Late night at the club?”

“Hmm” he replied distractedly, “quite so. In fact I-”

He broke off, and his counterpart in the shadowed glass paled visibly, eyes wide with shock. I followed his gaze to the livid bruise on my hip, just above my trousers.

“I say, Holmes” his voice was calm but when I met his eyes his face was pale and uncertain “that’s quite a bruise. Where on earth have you been?”

He stepped forward slowly, eyes never leaving my face. I swallowed heavily when he pushed gently at my shoulder to turn me around, leaning heavily on the washstand as he reached out to draw me to him.

His hand shook where he laid it on me to span the bruise.

“I am less concerned about where I have been, my dear Doctor, than where I am going.” I leaned my head back against his shoulder. His pulse beat fast against my own.

When he led me to the bed and laid me down, both of our questions were answered.


End file.
